


Guardian

by mako_lies (wingeddserpent)



Series: The Ruin [17]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Loneliness, M/M, Magic, World of Ruin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 21:04:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13983288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingeddserpent/pseuds/mako_lies
Summary: The one time Prompto forgets to load his guns, he expects to be daemon chow. He isn't, but rescue comes from an unexpected source.





	Guardian

**Author's Note:**

> For Pomptis fanweek's prompt: "imaginary friend." 
> 
> I think I played fast and loose with how the arsenal works here.

Prompto is totally on the ball with reloading his guns. Gotta be, because if he doesn’t do it right away, he forgets, and then he’s clicking empty instead of firing right when Noct’s about to be stabbed by a Yojimbo.

(And then Prompto holds Noct’s hand through the night as the poison burns through his system, because they’re out of antidotes, and Iggy drives like a crazy man through the night with Gladio, and Prompto stays at the haven with Noct, and holds him and holds him.) No. 

He reloads his guns right away, because he forgets otherwise, and nobody watches his back these days.

It’s his choice, and he’s gotta be realistic about it. ( _Idiot_ , says that sharp voice in his head. Like he’s gonna disagree.)

No ammo means best case he dies, worst case Scourge.

 

They lose more people to the Scourge each year. Ravus has made it his mission to record the ones he can’t save, so they’re not forgotten to this bleak history march.

People cough up black and black, until it swallows them up, and they become that hungry thing creeping in the perpetual night.

Prompto’s escaped that kind of horror once when he’d been stolen from the labs.  A lucky accident. But kinda like how lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice without Ramuh’s influence, he assumes he wouldn’t be so lucky the second time. Not without divine intervention.

Which he wouldn’t count on. Ravus says they’re noisy, gossipy, self-centered fools, and Prompto’s inclined to believe their new Oracle.

 

So Prompto’s pretty good about reloading his guns, because he can’t die before Noct comes back. Ever at his side. And Prompto meant it.

So he’ll keep reconnecting power lines and cell towers. He’ll keep fixing trucks and saving hunters and taking Iggy to tombs. Anything that’ll keep him going until he can see Noct’s face again.

Except he forgets. He forgets to load his guns. All of them.

He’d crashed hard at a Haven, the lights hammering pain into his skull from the hard hit he’d taken. Luckily from one of the Red Giant’s feet, rather than a blade.

Iggy swore that the whole “don’t sleep with a concussion” thingy was just a wive’s tale, and Iggy was the smartest person Prompto knew. So he’d crashed on the warm, humming rock. And he’d totally forgotten everything except oblivion.

And he hadn’t checked when he got up. Since, y’know, he always loaded them before sleeping.

On his merry way he’d skipped, and now there are about five billion Nagas swarmed around him. Cooing and hissing and laughing this sweet melody, like a lullaby, and why _why why_ do Nagas consistently bring the creep factor to the already creepy as hell “turn your body into a literal monster hellbent on destroying everything you loved ” thing.

Still, apart from nightmares till eternity, the billion or so Nagas wouldn’t be an issue—if he hadn’t used up all his ammo on those Red Giants yesterday.

The truck’s too far to run for, and his Auto-Crossbow isn’t fixed yet because he’d needed a special part, and those are getting harder and harder to find. And—

On instinct, he pulls his trusty pistol from the Void. Maybe he can reload now, while he’s running? Worth a shot. Or he can pistol whip like a champ. ( _Moron,_ his inner voice says, resigned. It’s not like Prompto makes great choices these days. _When was the last time you told Gladio and Ignis that you love them? Missed your chance, like I told you you would. Tragic.)_

He lines up a shot, a perfect amazing killing shot. Gotta make it count, if there’s any ammo left. Prompto holds his breath, praying to whatever Astral—maybe Shiva?—that still gives a shit about him. Prompto pulls the trigger—

A blue bullet sings out the barrel. Bright and glowing, that same glow as when he pulls his guns from Noct’s arsenal. The bullet explodes in bright white light, like a Starshell.

The Nagas shriek as one, all couple million of them. Wailing (not singing) their darkness returns to the earth. Prompto blinks. He stares down at his gun, stomach lurching, aching.

Holy magick bullet.

The only one who can touch his gun in the Void…

 

Is Noctis.

 

Prompto isn’t as well-versed in the whole magick thing as the guys are. They grew up with it, understanding it was their destiny or whatever. Prompto watched bad straight-to-DVD movies about commoners who realized they were Lucian bastards when magick swelled in their blood. It was a genre, and they were quality, _okay_.

He’d asked where their weapons went when they were sent away, but the answer Iggy’d given hadn’t made much sense. But Iggy had said they were totally safe: apart from Prompto, the only person who could reach his guns was Noct.

And since Prompto hadn’t put the crazy magick bullets in his gun, that meant…

 

It _has_ to be.

 

He runs for his truck, and once he’s safely inside, he opens up the chamber and sees—bullets. There are bullets. Totally loaded.

Just to check—he takes the ammo out and it—it dissolves into the ether, just like their weapons do. His breath catches in his throat, he can’t breathe—

All the way in the Crystal… Noct’s looking out for him. Noct’s _here_ , with him, and he’s not—he’s not alone out here, and even though it’s his own choices that led him to be some crazy technology hermit roughing it out where they can’t send the Exineris workers, it’s still—it never meant he wanted to be alone, but he’s—good at it. He’s had a lot of practice being alone. But here Noct is, like he always was, reminding Prompto that he loves him.

It has to be. It _has_ to be Noct. Noct, standing here with him. By his side.

Prompto presses the cool metal of his gun to his cheek, and he can’t—he can’t stop the tears that stream down onto the gun. Can’t stop the sobs, even though he knows it’s not safe here and he needs to camp out under the nearest light.

(And maybe, maybe he’s stupid enough to drive one-handed, so he can hold his gun.)

 

Prompto tells himself that he’s just being practical. Prudent, as Iggy’d say. Lack of resources is a big problem these days, and ammo is super super important.

So he just—strops loading his guns. All of them. Sniper rife. Assault rife. Handgun.

But they’re never empty. If he runs out of ammo, he can just dismiss them, and they appear with the glowing, holy ammo that honestly does more to kill the daemons than any accuracy of Prompto’s.

He wonders why sending them to the Void never reloaded them before—maybe because he’d always been Johnny on the Spot with reloading, and Noct didn’t have to worry about him in the Crystal? Or… maybe Prompto’s prayer reached Noctis instead? Who knows?

Either way, Noct never lets Prompto down, but when has he ever?

( _On the train_ , says that scary part of his brain that sounds more and more like Ardyn with every passing day. Still, he ignores it. It wasn’t Noct’s fault. Prompto knows how convincing those illusions can be, especially when you don’t know to look for them.)

He sprawls out on the haven, warmed by the glow, and he curls around his handgun. “…I miss the stars,” he tells Noctis, and he fights to keep his voice from wavering. “Like, yeah, of course I miss the sun, but do you remember when we’d sneak out of the tent and watch the stars? And I’d make up all these crazy stories about the constellations? Yeah—I miss that. Miss you, dude. I know you’re here, but I just—”

Prompto’s crying again. He always seems to be crying these days. Doesn’t know how he can stop. There’s nothing but daemons stretching endlessly, and if the lights at the haven go out, he’ll be one of them. Nothing and nobody for miles.

“Just you and me, Noct,” he says, and his voice cracks even worse, so that he can barely understand himself.

And he presses the cool barrel to his cheek and stares up at where the darkness obscures the stars. They’ll be under the same sky again. He knows it.

 

The daemons shriek from the bottom of the cell tower. Portable floodlights at the top keep them from scaling up to get him, but he’s in for a fight once he has to get down. Blood seeps sluggish down his arms. The fight to get up here had been nothing to spit at, but Noct had kept him safe.

“Thanks, dude,” he rasps as he works. Throat raw from where a hobgoblin had caught him around the neck, and the poison—no, he’s fine. The holy grenade had worked wonders, even if he’s not entirely sure he was the one who set it off. It had to be, right?

He wobbles a bit as he examines the system. Gotta get his head on right so he can fix it, then be off. He promised—promised Ravus he’d meet him in Lestallum. He has to—fix something? Why else would anybody need him? “You really—really saved my bacon there.”

Prompto forces himself to hum a victory fanfare. Something upbeat. Something to let Noct know, far away in the Crystal that he’s okay. But his face is wet, and his whole body aches from being thrown into the metal base of the tower. Prompto’s not sure he managed to scale the ladder with the portable lights on his back, but he had. “Wish you could see me now. Now who’s the weakest link,” the last part, muttered.

But it’s a bit stupid. He still is. Sure, he can fix stuff, but—

He shakes his head as he spaces. “Head in the game,” he chastises himself, and nearly topples, and if he falls off, that’s it, it’s over, and he can hear them below, yowling for another taste of his blood, and he hears the drip of red onto the metal grating, makes it slick, and he laughs, “Could really use a fire spell now. Just boom boom then I’d be home free.”

Maybe Iggy still has some of Noct’s magick bottled up? Who knows. Probably people who talk to Iggy regularly. So like, everyone except Prompto. Yikes. Worst boyfriend award to—

“If I could have followed you…” the words get caught in the hurt of his throat, in the hurt of losing—no, no no Noct’s here, right here, and he brings his gun to his lips, kisses chaste over the metal again and again like he’d kiss Noct’s face if he were here in person and not by proxy. “I would have gone with you. Into the Crystal. If I could have. Still would. Ever by your side, right Noct?” And his laughs sounds weak, almost drowned out by the shrieking below.

No. No. He has to get this tower up, or the hunters and glaives won’t be able to call for help from this area. He’s got to fix it. Prompto sucks in a breath, and sends the gun back to Noct with all his love.

Prompto’ll do his part, however small, to make sure there’s a world left for Noct to come back to.

 

“We’re nearly to Hammerhead,” he tells Noct, driving one-handed again. He rarely sends the handgun back these days. Only to reload. (Sometimes, he fires the gun empty and then sleeps with it. _You’re doing this to yourself_ , the voice says, and Prompto doesn’t disagree. Loneliness is sometimes a choice.) “Cindy has my Auto-Crossbow fixed.”

Cindy. His heart flips over with fondness, and he smiles over at the gun. Barely looks at the road. “Guess it’ll be good for you to see her again, huh?”

It’s been a long time since he’s been to Hammerhead. Longer since he spent any real time there. His brain fills up with all the excuses why—busy, Cindy probably doesn’t want to see him anyway, too out of the way, not enough time to stop before going to—but—

“Just excuses, huh,” he says, and he’s nearing that familiar stretch of road. The one where Noct had half crawled into the front seat to kiss Prompto, and Gladio had stolen the camera to snap a picture, and even Iggy’d agreed it was a good picture—and _oh,_ “I never told the guys about you,” he says to Noct, and his stomach lurches.

He didn’t tell the guys. Didn’t even _think_ to. Didn’t tell the guys that Noct’s _here_ , with them. Didn’t give them the hope that they all need, that speck of light in a world that’s become colorless. Prompto glances down at his gun. “Is that what you’ve been trying to do? Bring us back together?” His words catch a bit. Hell, he can’t start crying again. “…I should at least text,” he says, softly, and he’s pretty sure that there’s an answering glow.

But he’s probably imagining it.

( _Maybe you’ve been imaging it all along, and you’re just afraid that Gladio and Iggy will think you’re crazy…_ But he ignores the voice. He has to.)

Once he gets to Hammerhead, he promises himself and Noct, he’ll text the others. They deserve—need—to know that Noct is here. Why they have to keep fighting. “Thanks, Noct,” he whispers. 


End file.
